Messing around with the gee gees

Evenings are getting longer and lighter.

Rather than dodging darkness and downpours to dispense food and apply rugs, we can take our time to enjoy messing around with the gee gees.

Horse phobia is apparently not genetic.

Jarrah is R’s horse.

R thinks Blade also belongs to him.

But according to the Ginger Biscuit, Ginger Blade (aka “The Racing Horse”) is her, ALL hers.

And so are all the carrots.

While Toffee has been sort of outgrown, and Dancer is convalescing, Dave is the Farmboy’s steed of choice.

But Farmboy has his eye on the newest arrival, Rosie.

She’s Blade’s half-sister and Jarrah’s niece (or something similar- horse pedigrees are still largely beyond me).

Farmboy says she’s going to be his showjumping horse.

I’m told that she’s at the “ugly duckling” stage, and she will grow out of it.

We can only hope.

The (real-life) Saddle Club

When I was a kid, I wanted a pony so badly it hurt. I begged and begged, but my heartless parents refused, and I had to settle for my collection of Pullein-Thompson novels and Dallas, Prancer and Dixie, my Barbie horses.


Hours I spent grooming manes and tails with teeny little (plastic) brushes and curry combs, polishing (plastic) tack and adjusting teeny weeny little blankets to keep their (plastic) backs warm at night, all the while imagining every other girl in the world dressed in jodhpurs and Fair Isle jerseys, hacking out on their cobby little greys and duns, popping over tricky little oxers with practised ease before trotting home for tea and crumpets, while I sat in my room brooding on the unfairness of life and parents so evil that they wouldn't buy me a Cabbage Patch doll, either.

As it turned out, my parents were right. Horses, even small horses, are much more hassle than the plastic variety. Even though the real-life brushes are much bigger, it takes so much longer to groom a real-life horse- your arms are aching before you've done a quarter of the job. They get real-life tangles with twigs and mud and their real-life coats get absolutely chockablock with dust. It's even harder to get out than that biro mark my little brother left on Dallas' rump- and you can't use Spray'nWipe on a real-life horse. As I've previously mentioned, they can be a bit delicate and prone to expensive vet bills. No Superglue for real-life horses. Plus they have teeth, and don't stand still when you're trying to brush them or do their real-life feet, which keep growing and hurt a lot more than the plastic variety if they step on you. They buck and pigroot when they're excited, and wave teeth and hooves at each other... and in real-life, I'm a bit scared of horses.

So Farmboy's debut at our local Pony Club is both a vicarious dream-come-true for me, and a first step into a terrifying new world. Luckily R has been there and done that all his life, so he's not the one having kittens over the state of Farmboy's riding boots or the appropriateness of our gear or how to load the pony or any one of a hundred things that had me sleepless for a week. He's also happy to be the one who jogs laps of the yard, trying to encourage Dancer (a pathologically "steady" Welsh pony) into a trot. That was a relief, because our first day at Pony Club was about 35 degrees and I would have died.



But Farmboy loved every minute of it, Dancer took it all in her very experienced stride, and R enjoyed the flashback to his own youth. The Ginger Biscuit is already clamouring for her turn.

They're out practicing whenever we have a free afternoon, and it probably won't be long before they move from Pony Club to polocrosse, like R did.


I'm trying hard to learn as much as I can, because it looks like we'll be spending a lot more of our time doing real-life horsey stuff. So far, despite my lack of real-life skills, it's even more fun than the plastic.

The clip clop of little feet

A little something arrived today.

A little ginger something with a touch of blond,



with big brown eyes,



a rockstar hairstyle,


a fat spotty tummy,



and an indecent amount of facial hair,





No, it isn't one of the guys from ABBA (very very close, though),



It's Toffee!



He's sweet, gentle and handsome.



He's taught a bunch of local kids to ride, and now it's J's turn.
J's pretty happy about that.




Quiz, Blade and Jarrah are all excited too!





Toffee took it all in his tiny little stride.

He seems to believe "small" is merely a state of mind.



He isn't the only one around here with that attitude.





I think they're going to go well together.

Equus mutilis

Horses are delicate creatures. They are always at risk of banging into sharp trees and fence posts, tangling themselves up in wire, bruising their feet on rocks, going lame from hard ground, going lame from soft ground, eating too much of the wrong thing, and getting bits of human flesh stuck between their teeth.








So we go to great lengths to ensure the safety and general well-being of the five horses that live here, from regular dental and podiatry checks to fastidious paddock maintenance.








Unfortunately, sometimes bad things happen to even the nicest horses.





Last week one of the dogs (I hate to admit it, but I'm pretty sure it was Bill) got hold of a horse. We intervened just in time, but the horse's leg is pretty well mangled.





I shouldn't really be too surprised- Bill is a known sheep-killer.









Blade, don't cry! It's just a bit of fun! The little horse will be fine, just a dab of Superglue and he'll be good as gold, I promise.

Only Fools and Horses

If R wasn't farming, parenting, sheepdog trialling or waiting on me hand and foot, he'd be playing polocrosse.

R's family have been playing polocrosse since way back when, which is a long way in Kojonup: the first polocrosse in WA was played here in 1950, and one of the major centres of the sport is just around the corner (walking distance in the old days when people actually walked places). R pretty much grew up there, like I did at the University, and it's a bit of a social hub for the district.



I love watching polocrosse, it's a fantastic spectator sport. I'd always imagined that polo was even more exciting, given that it's more well known and more expensive, but frankly, from a spectator perspective, polocrosse leaves it for dead. BabyJ and I went to watch the polo in Perth last year, and I nearly fell asleep. It's slower, it's less intense, and while it isn't a bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon (especially with lots of champers and a picnic lunch), I'd rather be watching polocrosse.



Anyone can play polocrosse- they have junior, men's, women's and mixed teams at levels from pure weekenders to the top class, A Grade players, who take it pretty seriously. Most of the horses are stock horses (ASH) or thoroughbreds, often specifically bred for the sport, and they seem to really get into the game, chasing and blocking and jostling for the ball with little encouragement.

R's family have always had their own line of stockhorses- Jarrah and Blade are the only two still up for competing, but we're hoping to get one last foal out of Quiz in the next year.





So it's kind of a given that BabyJ will grow up riding, and probably play polocrosse. We need to find him a pony to get started on, because he's outgrowing Bill already.










And one of these days I'm going to learn to ride, too. I regularly look through the paper for an athletic allrounder that sounds promising, but the only horse R will let me near at the moment is the Horseland pony, and even then he's worried about me falling off.



Personally, I'm pretty sure I'll be as awesome at polocrosse as I am at everything else, if only I can find time to play in between excelling at 3 day eventing, showjumping and endurance. And once I can get Horseland Harry into a trot. Giddyup.